


the absence of everything.

by gavinsaleks (ohmaggies)



Category: Class of 198x (Web Series), The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: M/M, everything mentioned is set before the first ep!, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmaggies/pseuds/gavinsaleks
Summary: 'He looks almost as tired as Mike feels, and Mike feels something like worry and recognition sink low and heavy in his stomach.'based on: i work at a movie theatre and go into it to find you crying after the movie's finished.





	the absence of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still only on ep 5 but i love all the co198x characters soo soo much? my actual children, all of them. but i got very emotional over mike and sam at 3am a few days ago and this happened.
> 
> come talk to me about them or anything at @ohgavins on tumblr if u want!!
> 
> \- rachel.

The theatre is in a small corner of the store, tucked between a nail store and a record store, both considerably more crowded on the weekdays when Mike works there. It’s an alright job for four dollars an hour, and all the popcorn he can fit in the pockets of his jacket and jeans at the end of the day, and it’s easier than going to school.

 

But, lonelier, too.

 

His mother kicks him out of the house early that morning, tossing his pocketknife out after him, which he scoops off the ground, so he ends up at the theatre before he’s meant to be there. It’s half past seven, him being scheduled from ten to four, and he spends the whole day sweeping food off the floor and pocketing handfuls of it from warm seats.

 

It gets progressively late, sometime past four, and he’s burrowing around in the storage cupboard for a broom and brush pan, a rubbish bag tucked under his arm.

 

He spends his days here avoiding his mother and her constantly changing sexual partners, and trying not to get caught up in how two nights ago he fell asleep on a park bench near his house instead of going home.

 

A voice drifts in his head,  soft and comforting, but implanting a swirl of doubt: _you’ll be okay someday._

 

He sighs, kneeling down to grab a piece of popcorn that’s fallen from his pocket, when he hears a voice from the doorway. It’s his boss, or manager, a small girl with brown hair, the sound of her gum making wet sounds in her mouth. He flicks the popcorn away and turns around to look at her, broom still grasped loosely in his hand.

 

“Theatre Three’s movie just finished, can you clean up when everyone’s left? You’re the last one here and I need to go home before my show starts or I’ll miss it.”

 

He’s used to being given the worst of the jobs all the time, forced to stay here late to clean up messes that other people working here don’t want to.

 

It’s good to have an excuse to not be at home, that’s what he knows, because he’s tired of having a sore back from sleeping on park benches and listening to his mother screw people in the room across from his.

 

“Yeah, yeah, man. Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it,” he says, plastic bag crinkling in his hand.

 

Moments later, a stream of people pour out of the theatre; chatter, the sound of popcorn being crushed under feet, and the slurping on straws of almost nonexistent drinks loud in his ears. It’s something he’s used to,  the standard for the theatre late at night when people crowd the mall with their friends and family, something he himself wouldn’t know.

 

He waits for them to clear out, turning to close the cupboard door behind him when he’s sure he has everything he needs. The last remainders of the credits play, the lights still dim and brightening by the minute when he turns to start cleaning the top aisle.

 

The row is a mess, empty drink cups left in holders, popcorn containers on the floor with the last remainders of uneaten popcorn that he scoops into his pockets.

 

There’s a sniffle from a middle row, a quick, concerned glance revealing a peak of brown hair. It’s done up and looks like it’s being held in place with fifty cans of hairspray, and Mike takes the time to find his voice before he calls out. The only people who stay after the movie are usually drunk- _always_ drunk- and he’s not sure he has the energy to deal with that right now.

 

He swallows nervously, and steadies his voice when he calls out, “Hey! Sorry, man, you can’t be here.”

 

“Fuck, I-” comes the stranger's reply, their movement to slide their sunglasses on despite they're indoors illuminated by the projector light. “Movie fuckin’ got me, dude. That was some shit.”

 

Mike hesitates, waits for the projector screen to shut off and finds himself reaching for the light switch. They go from dim to full light, the stranger in the middle row shielding his eyes and then turning to look at him, seemingly blinded for a few beats. Even Mike stares through half-lidded eyelids at first, allowing his eyes to adjust before looking up again.

 

“That's fucking bright!”

 

“Yeah!” Mike manages back, voice unsteady but visibly relaxing when he realises its a boy he knows from school. His clothes are bright, hair done up but slightly messy from where he must have pressed it awkwardly against the theatre seats. But, he's familiar. “You good, dude?”

 

“Yo, I feel a’ight.”

 

He struggles with his name for a moment, let's a comfortable silence drift between them as he thinks, considers just making him leave. Somehow, for some reason, he doesn't. Maybe it's the sunglasses hiding one of Sam's eyes or the way the lights make clear the tear stains on his cheeks, but Mike loosens his grip on his broom and tries not to be awkward when he speaks.

 

“You were crying!”

 

“You, uh, you got me there,” Sam says, a single finger-gun finding its way towards Mike. He looks almost as tired as Mike feels, and Mike feels something like worry and recognition sink low and heavy in his stomach.

 

He clears his throat, voice just loud enough to drift through the space between them. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, words shaky. His mother and teacher chalk it down to social awkwardness and a lack of extrovertedness, he feels the way it constricts his chest and silently calls it anxiety.

 

“The movie finished seven minutes ago,” he continues, “we're closed.”

 

“Sorry, dude. I'll get out’cha your hair.”

 

Sam moves, the sound of soft fabric sliding against cheap movie theatre tickets louder than it should be in Mike's ears. He notices the open-mouthed expression of a silent wince, the obvious shiner, and tries to ignore how Sam sniffs just slightly as he gets closer to the door into the foyer. And, he's never been great at minding his own business.

 

He's seen Sam at his dad's store in the mall enough to recognise him, and he's heard the whispers at school of stuff he doesn't care enough to remember. Sam's dad is a Grade A asshole, polite to Mike the few times they've run into each other, but there's an impatient anger behind his facade that leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

 

Mike clears his throat as Sam passes, forcing out a, “You hungry?”

 

Beside him, he hears the previous quiet footsteps up the steps fade into nothingness, and turns to see Sam paused at the end of the aisle. It's hard to tell where he's looking with his sunglasses and how high he probably is, but Mike offers an uneasy smile anyway.

 

“Hungry?”

 

Sam watches him before replying, and Mike chalks it down to poor lack of motor skills from all the pot he's been taking, but still feels almost nervous.

 

“... You buying?” Sam asks, curiously, tucking both his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He looks cold but the sleeves are rolled up ever so slightly, a bruise purple and browning on his left wrist, and Mike finds himself staring at it for long enough that it's obvious what he's looking at.

 

Sam stills but doesn't say anything, just lowers his head and stares at Mike over the top of his sunglasses.

 

“Yeah,” he offers, laughing. “Yeah, I'm buying, man.”

 

There's an unspoken familiarity between them; Sam's at the park every now and then meeting up with shady people, and he's passed Mike on his little park bench enough for them to know each other. When he was still attending school, he had seen Sam around plenty of times; heard the name 'Samuel’ and knew it was him because Sam suited him.

 

They've never really spoken before, but Sam pulled a sandwich out of his pocket and tossed it softly to Mike late one night when he'd walked past him.

 

That's something, it may not make them friends, but it's something at least.

 

“Cool,” Sam says, sniffing once more and watching Mike like he's waiting for him to say something.

 

“I, uh,” Mike stumbles, glancing down at his pockets full of secondhand popcorn and the rubbish bag at his feet. He can't just leave the place a mess; he can't afford to get fired. He sighs, “Give me a few minutes to clean up? I'll meet you outside, I have to lock up and stuff.”

 

Sam burrows his hands further in his pockets and nods, brown hair shaking atop his head. “Sure thing, palerino. I'll see you in a jif.”

 

Mike empties his pockets, staring at is as he dumps it in the bag clenched in his hand. He's been saving his pay to buy something he can use to drown out the sounds of his mother the next room over, something that's hopefully more effective than holding a pillow over his head . But, he thinks about Sam, his black eye and bruised wrist, and figures it's worth spending his small savings.

 

If someone was kind to him just once, he'd appreciate it forever. Like, Sam in the park that night stopping in front of him to pass him a sandwich wrapped up. He knows Sam's mother locks herself in the basement to do her pottery, has walked past Sam's house enough times to hear the father yelling about it. He's heard over things, too, that are a lot less easy to think about.

 

Mike flicks popcorn under the seats with his broom, figures he can come to work early and finish the job, and flicks the lights off before leaving the theatre. Sam's leaning against a counter, poking his injured eye in the reflection of one of the mirrors hanging on the wall.

 

The storage cupboard door opens first tug, and Mike discards of the stuff, including the bag of popcorn, and turns back to find Sam looking at him. There’s a curiosity reflected in his eyes, gloves on his hands as he grips the counter to lean against, body angled towards Mike. It’s the most social contact he’s had with someone who wasn’t a pissed off customer or another employee asking him to do their job.

 

It leaves him with an odd, unknown, feeling, and he uses his now empty hands to brush his hair away from his forehead, trying to ignore the way Sam is watching him. It’s not with the usual pitying look he gets from strangers, or the angry glaze of an adult blaming him for how bad their movie was, or the tired, unfulfilled look his mother gets.

 

She’s been like that since his father, and he tries not to think about it but, lying on a park bench awake at nine at night leaves seldom else to do but reflect. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother is trying to replace his dad and it never works, thinks maybe that’s why she always looks disappointed. Other times, she watches him at the kitchen table and he knows she’s full of regret, eyes on her high school dropout of a son without a dad or friends.

 

His hair is dirty and less wellkept than Sam’s, and he feels the individual bumps of unwashed hair as he runs a hand through it. Sam is looking but doesn’t seem to notice, a loose strand of hair wavering across his face. Mike sighs.

 

“I see you 'round before?” Sam then asks, an unusual accent drawled in his words. He still has his sunglasses off, the shine and bruising of a black eye even more obvious in the light of the theatre foyer.

 

“I live near you, I think,” he offers with a shrug like he's not sure, even though he knows that he does. He’s seen him go home, that’s all the evidence he needs. “And I used to go to your school, we might've had a class together or something.”

 

“Yeah, it's, like, weird, man. You seem crazy familiar.”

 

“You’re Sam, right?” he tries, watching as Sam puts his glasses on, the high of his sleeve revealing bruises on his near pale skin. “Your father owns the sport store near here, I’ve been in there a couple times. For knives and stuff, I, uh- I wanna have a moving business when I’m older.”

 

A small smile tugs at the left of Sam’s lips. “That’s pretty sick, dude.”

 

There’s a few seconds of silence, Mike’s heart beating loud enough he can hear it in his ears, where neither of them say anything. He offers a small laugh back, cheeks hot as his gaze is drawn to the floor. His stomach growls loud enough to hear, and exhaustion tugs at his eyes, and he leans back up straight to work out the kinks in his back from sleeping on park benches most nights.

 

“Know anywhere that’s open?” he chokes out, though it’s much smoother and less shaky than his trembling hands would indicate it would be. Mike tries not to focus on his anxiety, watches Sam make a considerate face, before he says, “I need to lock up first but we can go get some fries.”

 

Sam perks up, retracting his hand from the counter and shoving both into the pockets of his jacket again.

 

It’s fairly cold out, enough so that Mike’s jean jacket barely does much in the way of keeping him warm. Sam looks warm, though, despite his hunched shoulders and how his usual tall figure is considerably small as he stands close together. A cool breeze floats through the door from the mall hall, probably from outside where afternoon is slowly closing in.

 

“I’m’a go wait out in the parking lot, see you there?”

 

Mike offers a brief smile and nods, Sam lingering for a few seconds before he leaves, and Mike makes his way behind the counter where Sam was to find the keys. They’re tucked in a drawer near the popcorn machine, which is unplugged from the wall, and his stomach grumbles loudly in the almost silence. He hasn’t eaten all day, night slowly approaching, and his hand absentmindedly finds its way to his pocket before he realises it’s empty.

 

Empty, except for a few pieces of lint and enough change to buy him and Sam something to eat. He’s always too worried to leave things at home, just in case, but it feels lighter than it did before.

 

From lack of popcorn, maybe, because he's so used to having it tucked in there that its absence is almost confusing.

 

The keys jingle in his hands as he pulls the door shut, sliding the key into lock it and then sliding it into his jeans. He'll hold onto it tomorrow, knowing he'll be the first one to show up so he can open the doors then; and that he has to come to work earlier anyway to clear theatre three properly before any of the other employees show up.

 

He finds Sam around from the front of the mall, leaning against a wall with one leg straight out in front of him, the other in the air, bent at the knee with his foot firm on the floor. He looks comfortable, almost, and there's nothing about him that says he's growing impatient with how long Mike's been.

 

“Hey.”

 

Sam gets slowly to his feet, a gloved hand reaching to fix his firm hair. “Yo,” he says in greeting, then, “I didn't catch’cha name.”

 

Mike offers his hand forward because he feels like he's supposed to; because it's what his dad would've done, and it's what his mother's hook-ups do when they accidentally bump into him. It feels right, and Sam's hand, slick with sweat, popcorn butter, and dry hairspray, feels right too.

 

“Mike,” he says, watching the way Sam nods ever so slightly, slowly withdrawing their hands when the shake lasts longer than it should. “Michael, actually. But, uh, everyone just calls me Mike.”

 

“You can call me Samuel,” Sam replies, tucking his shaking hand back into his pocket.  “Most people call me Cool Beans.”

 

“Why?”

 

“‘Cause my last name is Beans.”

 

Mike laughs, shakes his head a little, and brings his arms closer to his body. It's much colder outside than in, the chill and breeze worming its way through his jean jacket. It's cold, and he knows he'll have to sleep at home tonight because he'd freeze on that park bench. In front of him, Sam has his head lowered, blowing warm air down his jacket.

 

“Where we eating?” he asks, looking up at Mike through his thick hair, just barely pushed away from his forehead.

 

“There's a place a walk away that does some alright fries if you're hungry?” Mike suggests, even though he knows Sam is because they already had a similar conversation inside. “If you're too cold, we could find something to eat inside the mall, it'd be quicker.

 

“Nah, I'm cool with a walk,” Sam says, a hand leaving his pocket to motion Mike to start walking. “Lead the way, Michael.”

 

Something, a small, lingering thought, tells him that Samuel isn't in much of a hurry to get home. Maybe it's because he's hungry or because he doesn't want to do his homework, or, his dad, but Mike isn't in much of a hurry either. His mum probably has someone over and he'd like to avoid trying to sleep near that for as long as he can.

 

“You, uh,” Sam calls eventually, the sound of his gentle footsteps jogging to close the small distance between him and Mike. “You cold?”

 

Mike's always been too awkward for casual conversation, too to-himself to have friends or be close to anyone, but he finds a small strike of sudden honesty. “Yeah, I guess. Didn't realise it'd be so cold out when I left home this morning.”

 

Or, when his mum was telling to him that he said five minutes to get ready for work before she was kicking out, and he'd only just had time to grab his small, jean jacket on the way out. He's lucky he had it, with not enough to buy a replacement and it being cold enough outside that he doubts he could've walked home like this.

 

“Me too, man.”

 

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, bar for Sam tripping on the way and yelling a string of swears while Mike turned to look at him in concern. He learns two things about Samuel in the twenty minutes it takes for them to arrive at the restaurant: one, he talks with the comprehension of one of Mike's nine year old relatives he hasn't seen in years, and, two, he's clumsy.

 

Or, maybe it's just how long and poofy his pants are, but he trips at least three times on cracks in the sidewalk.

 

Mike smiles at him with a feeling he can only describe as fondness; he thinks about Samuel and his dad, and the smile fades into a subtle frown. He knows what it’s like not having a parent, and maybe his father’s death and Sam’s father’s abuse arent' the same but they both hurt. It isn’t comparable, but their mother’s are both absent and ignorant, and they have that in common at least.

 

“I’ll find us a booth,” Sam offers when they get there, a hand settling in the middle of Mike’s back in a friendly gesture.

 

He nods, thinks about how it’s the first small bit of physical contact he has, and his hands shake the whole way to the counter. Their fries only take a few minutes and he leans against the counter before looking over at Sam; he’s pulling down his sleeves, sunglasses discarded on the table, and he makes a face at his reflection in the window that is familiar. It’s how Mike looks when he sees himself, face and hair too harsh a reminder of a dead father.

 

He turns back to the server to take the tray, offering a nervous and quiet ‘thanks’ as he stares at his feet. It’s cold inside the diner but not as cold as inside, and it’s fairly empty considering how early at night it is.

 

Sam looks at him as he moves closer, sitting with his back against the window, legs spread out on own whole side of the booth seat. He’s still cold, just not as much as before, and Mike slides the food towards him and watches the way his face lights up.

 

Mike knows the relief of seeing food after being starved for so long, and sits on the seat opposite Sam, reaching for a fry to nibble on while Sam stares at his hand, stretching out his fingers. In his other hand, he’s holding a hot chip, but there’s an unusual reserved look on his face that Mike doesn’t recognise; not that he should, they’re not friends, but it makes the decision to ask him if he’s okay so much harder.

 

“Are you alright?” He has a hot chip half-chewed in the corner of his mouth, stomach responding with want, and Sam’s eyebrows lift before settling back on his face.

 

“Yeah, uh- just thinking, dude.”

 

Mike takes another bite of his chip, trying to decide between asking him what exactly he was thinking about or just eating in silence. Curiosity wins over; it will always win over, especially with young neighbours who sell drugs and hang around the mall late in the afternoon to cry. And, whose father's hit them.

 

“About what?”

 

Sam laughs, a small, sad, choked sound that has Mike instantly looking up in concern. He almost regrets asking, looking at the marks on Sam's exposed forearms, but he knows they probably won't talk again so a little awkwardness is something Mike can live with.

 

“It- it's stupid, dude.”

 

“I can't go home until six because my mom's fucking my neighbour,” he offers, voice restrained but honest. “That's probably more stupid than whatever you're thinking about.”

 

He knows there’s a certain harshness behind his words, and he reaches for another chip off the top of the pile and tries not to think too much about it. Even saying the words is a huge weight off his shoulders; he hasn’t had a friend in years, and no one knows about his mother because he doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t talk about it like, usually doesn’t going around telling teenage boys who are practically strangers that his mum sleeps around.

 

In front of him, Sam pauses and offers, “fuck, man.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike mutters, stuttering for a moment, “my- my dad died a few years ago from a disease and I don't think she really wanted kids in the first place. It’s not all bad, though, you know?”

 

“I don’t see my mother, like, ever. She threw away all our plates and bowls, and makes us use whatever shitty pottery she made while locked away. It, uh, it makes my dad mad and he hits things, and throws stuff, so I try to stay out of his way but-”

 

Mike stills, wishes that all those times he had assumed that, he hadn’t been right. “He hits you?”

 

It feels wrong, an empty churn settling in his belly. In his mind, the image of Sam, wearing his pajamas and bare-faced, and his father taking out anger on him. Sam, getting dressed in the morning and wearing clothes that won’t show the bruises, putting his sunglasses on and trying not to wince at the contact. Mike feels sick, but, he also feels angry.

 

Sam laughs again, a two-syllable sound that stretches his lips but doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes a chip from the plate and bites it clean in half. For a split second, he looks at Mike and there’s something blank but knowing there, like they both have shitty parents and a mum that ignores them, like someone understands.

 

Mike wishes Sam didn’t, and pushes the plate away from his even though his stomach feels the affects of it. He’s hungry but he’s too sick to eat, too focused on how small Sam looks before him, with his black eye and a split in his lip that Mike notices when he shuffles the smallest distance closer. Anger is something he knows well, almost more familiar than the bench in the park near his house, and the cold of loneliness that he’s well versed in.

 

This is maybe one of those few times where he’s more angry than anything else, thinks about Sam in the movie theatre crying alone and how everyone thinks he’s just a loser drug addict with a deadbeat dad who was lucky in getting his money.

 

“You need to eat, bud.”

 

Sam, looking at him with a tight smile that Mike replicates.

 

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m not that hungry,” he lies, elbows on the table. Despite himself, he reluctantly takes a chip that Sam offers to him, pinched between his fingers and pushed gently in Mike’s direction.

 

It’s still warm, and the saltiness on his tongue reminds him how long it’s been since he had a decent thing to eat like this. Mostly, it’s scraps from the theatre or when he’s lucky enough to be home when his mother is cooking and she dishes food up for him. It’s never the best, and he knows he’s probably far from healthy, but it’s better than starving lonely on the street or sitting fully-clothed in the shower hoping the sound of it will drown out his mother and her companion.

 

That same voice from earlier, slightly more hopeful: _you’ll be okay someday. Sam will be okay someday. Everything will be okay._

 

Mike looks up at Sam, staring at him, and manages a smile that feels more genuine than the last. He’ll go home to no dad and a mum who sleeps around, and Sam will go home to a mother he never sees and a father who hits him, but they’ll be okay. One day, some day, when they get older and the world gets a little kinder. Mike won’t eat movie theatre floor popcorn, and Sam won’t have to cover up bruises, and they’ll be okay.

 

Sam says, “Cold in here, huh?” and Mike nods back at him.

 

It feels right, like he finally has some kind of friend after years and years of having none, like Sam isn’t hiding in the dark theatre crying because he doesn’t want to go home. It’s not a lot, maybe, but it’s enough that Mike laughs when Sam reaches over to steal his fry, and a small kind of hope blossoms in his chest.

 

_you’ll be okay, someday._

**Author's Note:**

> :(


End file.
